


memories that fade (and come back)

by adorabilistic



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is So Done, Suicidal Thoughts, sad Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:36:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adorabilistic/pseuds/adorabilistic
Summary: There are times when he wakes up in a moment of hopeful optimism and thinks that everything that has happened was just a dream; but then reality crashes down and suffocates all thought.There are times when he feels like he could asphyxiate beneath the weight of his dreams and his memories, both vivid and vicious.And there are times…there are times he wishes it would happen. But it doesn't.It never does.





	memories that fade (and come back)

The first thing Steve Rogers remembers when he wakes up is Bucky.   

 

Involuntarily, images flutter through his mind, both old ones and new ones. Bucky's smile is the most vivid amongst the flurry. Steve almost smiles too.   

 

He then looks back to the days when he was an asthmatic, weak and in danger of coughing himself into a dying fit any second; he relieves how Bucky never wants him out of the house whenever it was winter because he's afraid Steve might be blown away by the wind—he remembered rolling his eyes at how unrealistic it sounded when Bucky first mentioned it.  

 

When winter rolled by, Steve feels as if he's back in the 30s, curled up on the old saggy sofa for warmth in their small apartment, his bony frame pressed against Bucky's strong toned body. He almost laughs in reminiscence as he remembers the party with the Howling Commandos, how he'd felt lost when he realizes he's taller and broader than his best friend—he's been so used to being small and Bucky being tall, so used to having to lift his head to look up at him.  

 

But then _, then_ the little demons and malignant spirits rise, and his head is awash with pictures of his best friend falling, because he couldn't save him. What was Captain America worth if he couldn't even save his best friend? 

 

At night, he weeps into his pillow, salty tears and silent sobs. But there isn't Bucky to wipe his tears away, to call him a punk and tell him to get it together, and Steve can't retaliate by calling him a jerk and laugh like a dying hyena anymore, because that's all  _gone, gone, gone_.  

 

He tries to reminisce about the happier memories, but they feel so far away, and Steve's justso tired,  _so, so tired_. 

 

Later, he found solace in the gym, punching his knuckles bloody and his head swimming, yet the image of Bucky still stuck in his head, his mind. He stares at his bleeding hands every time after he's finished and back in his apartment, trying to remember the last time Bucky had patched him up after yet another fight in the ginnel. He almost cries when he couldn't remember.

 

There are times when he wakes up in a moment of hopeful optimism and thinks that everything that has happened was just a dream; but then reality crashes down and suffocates all thought.  

 

There are times when he feels like he could asphyxiate beneath the weight of his dreams and his memories, both vivid and vicious.  

 

And there are times...there are times he wishes it could happen; but it doesn't.  

 

It never does.  

 

* * *

 

Steve was pretty sure he would have strayed from the course of life if Nick Fury hadn't suddenly appeared in all his eye-patched glory, temporarily replacing his thoughts of Bucky with the concept of world-saving, something called a "tesseract", and—of course—aliens. 

 

It was a good way to escape the stifling past.  

 

He got himself a new team, consisting of spitfire Natasha, hawkeyed Clint, timidly quiet yet brilliant Bruce, Asgardian god Thor, and billionaire genius Tony. At first, he regarded them as soldiers in need of lead; nowadays, he looked at them as a group of friends.  

 

He's grateful for them.  

 

As a result of the aftermath of the New York fiasco, Steve has less time to drown himself in his emotions, less time to think about the Howling Commandos, Peggy, Red Skull, but still seems to find time to remember Bucky. He's wondered why _,_ but the answer is clear after a few days, after seeing Clint crying himself silly after finding out that Coulson was still alive and had proceeded to kiss the still-recovering agent right there and then in the hospital room: it's because Steve loves him, as a friend and as a lover. 

 

He'd always known the truth, except he's never really  _thought_  about it, never tried to process the fact that  _he was in love with his best and only friend,_ never asked himself why exactly he loved Bucky. 

 

Yes, he would have married Peggy, because she had such a fierce soul and he admired her so; but when compared to Bucky, it felt like his feelings for Peggy were a complete fabrication—nothing could hold a candle to his affection towards Bucky, that was unequivocally clear. Loving the same gender was loathsome, repugnant and considered unholy back then, unlike now. Steve had been rendered speechless after seeing a gay pride parade on the streets, inundated by the sheer mass of people waving rainbow flags and holding signs.  

   

Oh, how he had wished Bucky could see that. 

 

So he drew it all—the march, the flags, the people, and almost everything he found fascinating in the 21st century—as a requiem to his best friend. It wouldn't bring him back, no, but it made Steve feel better, since he was at least doing something instead of wallowing in his own misery.  

 

Day by day, he patched himself up, sewed the wounds back shut, got his shit together, and locked away every goddamn thing from the past. He thought he did a pretty good job.  

 

That was, until he met the Winter Soldier, and his world—everything he'd so carefully pieced back—fell apart.  

 

* * *

 

To say he was shocked would be a complete and utter understatement. Bucky was dead, he hadto be dead—not like Steve wanted him to be—he had seen him fall; there was no possible way Bucky could have survived that. The Winter Soldier couldn't be his Bucky.

 

But it was—and that was the unbearable truth. It was Bucky, as much as Steve tried to ignore it, tried to convince himself that the man that had killed Director Fury and almost killed Natasha—almost killing him too—was not the man he had loved for over 70 years. He'd never fought hand-to-hand with Bucky before, but somehow he knew that those moves were Bucky's moves, and that face behind the mask was Bucky's face. 

 

Saving the world had always been the first and foremost priority, it would be remiss of him not to; but Bucky had always been there for him, resolutely protected him from his bullies—even though Steve would always fight back—and would never ever turn his back on Steve when he needed help. 

 

"He doesn't know you," Sam had warned him.  

 

The truth was he would do anything to save Bucky, even though he was keenly aware that by doing so, he would be defying his role as a exemplary and patriotic idol. 

 

But saving the world would always have to come first, as much as he detested it this time.  

 

And that was how he ended up drowning once again, with nothing but the memory of his own lasting words— _I'm with you till the end of the line_ —and a blurry image of a metal hand reaching towards him.  

 

* * *

 

He woke up in a blindingly white hospital room, various tubes attached to his arms, and a very pissed Sam Wilson.   

 

"You. Motherfucking. Idiot." Sam glowered at him. Steve's head gave a dull aching pound. Or was it a dull pounding ache? "If you weren't Captain America lying on a hospital bed, I'd punch you right across your perfect nose."  

 

"I…" His tongue felt like sandpaper. "I thought I'd drowned."  

 

"Pssh," Steve accepted the glass of water Sam passed over to him, downing it in one gulp. He grimaced at the cold of the liquid—for some reason, it burned as it slid down his throat—but it helped cleanse the dead-rat-taste that had somehow gotten into his mouth. "I thought so too. Took a hell of a journey to get to you without my wings. There I was, walking through a land of mud, thinking  _'Oh man, what if I dug up the corpse of Captain America? What are the people of America going to say? Damn, what will the whole world say?'_  And then there you were, lying there like a goddamn Sleeping Beauty, right above the water. Hell, I don't know how you got out, but that must be one helluva swim."  

 

Steve stared at him. "I didn't. Swim myself out, I mean." He racked his brain, but all that came up was another wave of profound headache pain. "Bucky, what about him? Did you—"  

 

"Nah, man. Gone before I got there. No sign of that creepy metal-armed guy."  

 

"He pulled me out." As soon as those words left Steve's mouth, he was even more sure of it. It all came back to him now, in bits and pieces, but it wasn't hard to put it all together. "He pulled me out of the water." 

 

"Look, Steve, buddy, not to burst your bubble and all, but he tried to kill us, tried to kill  _you_ , and you're still lenient about it. I know he was your best bud, but agendas change. People change."  

 

"Wow, way to be considerate about it."  

 

"I'm serious, Steve."  

 

Steve let his head fall back against the pillow. In the background, music played.  

 

 _You're my friend._  

 

 _You're my mission._  

 

* * *

 

He wasn't surprised to find Bucky in his apartment three weeks after he'd ended up in the hospital—he should have been, but he wasn't. He'd caught a glimpse of the metal arm peeking out from the window as soon as he parked outside the building. Bucky didn't even lift his head when Steve entered, but Steve knew he'd heard him, assassin instinct and all.  

 

The apartment was immaculately clean, so Bucky had obviously tidied it up. Steve supposed there really wasn't much to do except that, if you were an ex-assassin hiding in your best friend's apartment.  

 

"Hey Buck," He sat down carefully on the worn couch. He had picked one that looked almost like the one they had years and years back, so it felt more like home.  

 

Home. Bucky was home.   

 

"Took you long enough, you punk." The sound of Bucky's voice was almost inaudible, his words belied by the break of his voice at the end, but it was enough to indicate it was  _him_.  

 

"Well, traffic was tedious, jerk." That brought a slight tilt to Bucky's lips.   

 

Silence passed through them. Steve picked at a loose thread on the couch.  

 

And then, "I'm sorry."  

 

Steve looked up, startled.  

 

"I didn't—everything I did…all those people I killed…they didn't deserve that. I'm a threat; to you a-and to the world."  

 

"No one is infallible, Bucky. That wasn't you. HYDRA controlled you, forced your finger on the trigger." Bucky started to protest. "No, listen to me. They fucked you up. You didn't do the things you thought you did. You were a victim as much as the people HYDRA killed were. You didn't have a choice—you were a prisoner, Buck."  

 

"But I could have—"  

 

"What? Escaped? They would have caught you and brought you back. It would've been even worse."   

 

Steve maneuvered around the coffee table to stand in front of Bucky, looking him right in the eyes. He was surprised the man held his gaze. Bucky's eyes were bloodshot, the bags under his eyes dark and heavily visible. He looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep for days. Steve gripped his shoulders tightly. "Buck, you—you can't possibly think I'd blame you for what HYDRA did."  

 

"HYDRA didn't kill them."  

 

"No—I mean yes, I get your point, but HYDRA was controlling you while you were the Winter Soldier. You shouldn't hold responsibility for crimes you didn't commit." Tears started to well up in Bucky's eyes, although he tried to blink them away.   

 

Steve pulled him into a tight embrace. "You're James Buchanan Barnes," he whispered into Bucky's hair while Bucky wept against his shoulder. "That's who you really are; not some machine HYDRA programmed you into. You're Bucky, and I love you. I'll always love you."  

 

Bucky gave a muffled laugh. "Took you long enough,"  

 

"Well," Steve smiled coyly. "I did have some time to think while I was kind of imprisoned at the hospital."  

 

The smile started to slip from Bucky's face, but before Steve could counter with another witty explanation, Bucky's lips were on his.  

   

Their mouths fit together like pieces of a puzzle, and a hot flame ignited deep down in Steve's stomach. Noses brushed, fingers tangled together, the taste of Bucky, sweet and spicy, filled Steve's mouth. The kiss was hesitant, yet intimate and delicate, a feeling of home and belonging, like warm sunshine and soft flower petals, but it burned.  

 

" _Imsorryimsorryimsorry_ " Bucky repeated over and over again against his lips like a broken recorder, soft teeth nipping and eyelashes brushing.  

 

"It's okay, it's okay." Another kiss. Steve's fingers brushing Bucky's hair back. "It's okay. We'll get through this, we'll figure it out. You're safe, Buck, you're safe."  

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly wanted to write something sweet and fluffy, because I've read too much angsty fics…but then, it turned into this horrifying creature. Sue me.
> 
> Also, my laptop was not up for cooperation when I tried to post this, so I'd accidentally posted four copies of my work at first, and then it took me forever to get the others down, ugh why does this always happen to me.
> 
> P.S. to all the grammar nazis out there: feel free to nick and pick at the errors I may have missed.


End file.
